


Slippery Slope

by Basingstoke



Series: Unfinished WIP clearinghouse [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Awkward First Times, F/M, Female Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke





	Slippery Slope

Fast forward: A mediocre childhood, an early interest in school, decent A levels, medical school, Army, Afghanistan, a bullet; pause, because this moment is so bright and so clear. The moment of impact. 

And then downhill: Evacuation, physical therapy, depression in a dull beige room. Then he meets her and things become bright again. Vivid. Alive. 

And she's well fit, yes, but that's not the point. The point is her luminous grey eyes seeing through him.

*

"Lestrade says come," the policewoman says. 

"Lestrade used to speak to me himself," Sherlock says. "He's back with the wife, then?" 

"No thanks to you." 

"It's not my fault she's fucking her t'ai chi teacher. John, may I present Detective Sergeant Donovan?"

"Like the new flat," Donovan says. "How'd you get the flatmate? Net or spear-gun?" 

"Discount on the rent," John says. 

"Deal with the devil, mate," she says. 

John shrugs. He's made worse. 

"Come on, then," Sherlock tells him, and they go to a crime scene.

*

At the crime scene, Donovan checks in with a silver-haired man, and Sherlock leads John past a man with a black goatee and up to a head. 

Just a head. Looks very serene, for a head. More like a medical school prank than a crime. "What can you tell me?" Sherlock asks. 

"Male," John says. Sherlock rolls her eyes. "Give me a second." He kneels down. "Natural redhead. Cut off raggedly. Amateur. I can't tell how many blows without moving it." 

"No touching!" says Goatee. 

Sherlock circles the head. "Not killed here, of course." 

"Dead for some time before the head was cut off. Might even be--" He leans in carefully, sniffs. "Embalmed. A bit. Not fully." 

"Interesting. Donovan! Withhold the hair colour!" 

"I'm a fucking professional, Sherlock, of course it's withheld! We're having redhead murders, yeah?" 

"Not murders! Something more interesting," Sherlock says, and she hails a cab. John catches up and dives into the cab behind her. 

*

She sits on the sofa and steeples her fingers under her nose. "Someone is stealing the ginger dead," she says. 

"That's very weird," John says. 

Sherlock looks at him oddly, as though she hadn't expected him to answer. "This isn't the first. There have been two more. This confirms it's not a coincidence. Why would anyone do that?" 

"Sending a message to Ron Weasley?" John suggests. 

She smirks. "No. Someone real. The question is who? No, the question is how do I find him?" She crosses her legs beneath her. "Well, I know where to start." She grabs her netbook. 

"I'll just make some tea," John says. 

Sherlock finds the target within six hours. 

*

Running. Through a field, herding the suspect like sheep dogs, communicating with glances, and at the end John tackles him around the knees (hopes the referee isn't looking, hah) and Sherlock grabs the man's full attention, also known as his septum piercing. He squeals like a kettle. 

"Vincent Spaulding, also known as John Clay! You've been beheading people," Sherlock says. 

"I'm no murderer!" 

"No, but you were beheading gingers, trying to put the wind up your employer, Jabez Wilson, a notably red-headed man, proprietor of a small off-license near a large _bank_ , so that he would tighten security and give you a camera you could train on the bank employees. Excellent plan, I'm nearly sorry to foil it. But not sorry enough." Sherlock lets go of his piercing. John can't imagine how Sherlock got all that out in one breath. 

"It wasn't--I wasn't--oh god, no," Clay says, staring past Sherlock. "Moran, no!" 

His head explodes all over Sherlock's face. 

John jumps up and aims, but there's nobody to shoot. He hustles Sherlock down behind a tussock. Watches, but there's nothing to see. 

*

He's known Sherlock for forty-eight hours. They solved a crime together. He thinks he rather fancies her. 

She's no beauty. She wears men's suits tailored to her shape, and it doesn't take much tailoring. She's tall and flat and hipless and her dark curls are cropped short against her head. She's riveting, commanding, rather than attractive. 

He definitely fancies her. 

He deposits his last bag in his room and checks he has condoms. He does, so he goes downstairs and looks for her. 

Sherlock is eating cold leftover noodles. "I hope you don't want any, because you can't have any," she says, guarding the carton in the curve of her arms. 

"I'm fine. I've actually eaten in the past 24 hours." 

She sniffs. "Food makes me sleepy. Hunger keeps me sharp. But the case is over, so I suppose the bodily needs. Speaking of, use the toilet if you need to."

"I'm all right." This isn't the best lead-in to a pass. "So--eating, sleeping--"

"Pooing," Sherlock says. She bolts up and pushes him aside. 

That's that. John goes to bed. 

*

John tries again a week or so on. "Would you like to go to dinner?"

"Thai," Sherlock says. "I've wanted green curry all day." 

"All right," John agrees.

John pays, which Sherlock doesn't notice, and he escorts her home and tries a snog at the top of the stairs. She pulls back. "What are you doing?" 

"Ah. Kissing you?" 

Sherlock blinks at him. "Me?" 

"Yes?" 

"You're sexually interested in me?" Sherlock says. 

"Yes." John tilts his head back. "I have been from the beginning. You cannot possibly have just worked that out, Sherlock bloody Holmes." 

"I'm not your type." 

"What is my type?" John asks. He honestly doesn't know. 

"Women who don't look like lesbians." 

"No, women who look like lesbians are fine," John says, wondering what happened. "I like a bit of butch. I like you."

"You can't. That doesn't make sense." Sherlock backs up a step. She examines him. John tries to look willing. "Really?" she asks. 

"Yes." 

"I'm not shaved. Not, well. Since summer." 

"That's fine." Hair is natural. He's all for natural. 

"Armpits too. To be clear."

"All fine." 

Sherlock's eyebrows knot. "Really? It was a tremendous turnoff in uni. Chased all the boys away." 

"Oh, well. _Boys_ ," John says. 

Sherlock inhales. She leans in slightly. 

"Boys are just...boys," John says. 

"Do you have condoms?" 

"Yes." 

Sherlock flows into his arms.

*

John is trying his best to bring her off with his mouth, but it's not working. She accidentally kicks him in the face and that's the best of it. "For god's sake just finish!" she bellows at him. "I'm standing up in ten seconds either way!" 

John rolls onto his back and covers his eyes. 

*

The sex was terrible. John figures that's the end of it. But when he finally emerges from his room he finds Sherlock sitting outside, obviously waiting for him. "We're going again," she says. 

"Okay," John agrees. 

"I've never been bad at anything in my life. I'm going to get this right." Sherlock has a determined look on her face that John appreciates.

*

admiralbas: Hmm, so John figures the sex was terrible, he needs to go on with life and try not to get kicked out, but then the next day when he comes home she stands in front of him, hands on her hips, and says they're trying it again  
admiralbas: Because when she tries to jerk off, she thinks at his cock in her, and clearly there is a way to make this work, and dammit, she will not be beaten  
admiralbas: Sits him down on his bed, both of them naked, and asks him what makes sex good  
admiralbas: John: well, not what we did yesterday  
admiralbas: Sherlock: I CAN TELL

admiralbas: So the second time, John tries to rub her off and gets a wrist cramp

admiralbas: Sherlock: well, that was better.  
admiralbas: Rubbing John's wrist, still naked  
admiralbas: John: I thought so, up until my arm went

admiralbas: Sherlock: sorry, I forgot to shave my legs.  
admiralbas: Sherlock: I was thinking about your penis and lost track of time.  
admiralbas: John: it's fine, actually. Reminds me of fucking soldiers.  
admiralbas: Sherlock: you're clearly experienced. Why isn't this better?  
admiralbas: John: LOLOLOLOL  
admiralbas: Sherlock: I suppose I should have phrased that differently  
admiralbas: And they both crack up  
admiralbas: I love it when they giggle together

...


End file.
